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Friday, September 25, 2009

Break Time: #fridayflash

Nausea pulses, a wave of jittering gray dots. The crash came so quick. But every stall’s filled; men stand three lines deep before the available urinals. Lemony disinfectant melds with ammonia piss and makes me almost gag. I lean over the sink, blast the faucet, wait for the place to clear but the door keeps opening.

Screw this. It’s too busy. I don’t have time to wait. I hurry out, resume my journey towards pre-op. Pale light filters through the atrium. Snow from last night’s squall dusts the glass of the domed ceiling. The fountain gurgles. Two kids toss coins, each penny dropping with a melodious ping. Making wishes no doubt: help my daddy get better, let my mommy bring home a baby brother, fix Grammy’s broken heart. If I had time and pennies to waste, what would I wish for?

Bette from ICU calls my name, snaps me from my daze. She waves, a tight curl of her hands, rubber clogs squeaking on linoleum. The smile plastering my face feels lopsided and too large, like it’s pulling my cheeks to heaven. I walk carefully but no one else seems to mind the wavering floor.

I stop before the Chapel. The hospital roar fades, replaced by airless silence. A lone woman kneels before Mary and Jesus, blond hair streaming down her back. For a moment I swear it’s Phoebe, but it’s not, it can’t be, Phoebe’s prepping anesthesia. I should be with her, but I’m in no shape to thread IV lines into veins.

Out of habit I genuflect before collapsing into the pew. My fingers tremble in the white jacket pocket under the ‘Kevin Sullivan, MD’ embroidered in black over my heart, searching for the packet I fished out of Mrs. O’s trash can. The foil crinkles.

The lady’s head lifts. I freeze. Her reddened eyes stare back at me. She doesn’t look like Phoebe at all; ersatz blond with sucked-in cheeks from too many face lifts. A lot of women look like this in Baltimore, the moneyed ones; I know their sort too well. I smile a quivery smile of sympathy and will her to turn back to the altar. She resumes her entreaties.

Say a prayer for me, baby - I need all the help I can get. I squeeze the patch between my fingers. Three drops, shiny and viscous, ooze into my palm like liquid crystals. Remorse pricks me, and disgust that I’ve come to this again, but then I greedily lick my hand and suck the foil. The initial alcohol taste turns sweet. Calm gilds my mouth and throat, spreads to my chest, my fingers, my world. The door opens, the blonde mourner’s soul floats in her wake. I surrender to the velvet-lined bench and the world cradles me.

Nothing else is more pure.

***

An excerpt from PURE, a novel currently under construction. Hope you enjoyed.

Thanks for reading folks! The drug is fentanyl, a potent narcotic (I have a little picture because it is mentioned earlier). PURE has three voices; this is Kevin, my pill-popping anesthesiologist. Glad you like him; he has a short and tragic life ;^)

Jon, fridayflash is SOOOOOOOOOOOO addicting. I've been reading and commenting all morning. Must get to work, must get to work... Thanks for being our fearless leader! Peace, Linda

Thanks all for your reads and comments. Tony, yep; an addict's an addict, or so I've found in my line of work.

Barry, this is the book I'm NaNoing, so very glad you like so far. PURE's been an extreme challenge, to put it mildly.

David, interesting... the juxtaposition of fountain/chapel with desperation of needing a fix was not intentional. Goes to show how the mind works when it spews out its first impressions of a scene. Thanks for noting.

"... a wave of jittering gray dots." This is one tiny example of something you do so well in the writing of this piece: you describe the heretofore indescribable. I've experienced something like that with waves of nausea. It's a crystalline image to me. Your entire excerpt is filled with fantastic descriptions like this. It's just the barest taste of the physician character, one that is far more intriguing than it is flattering.

A nerve on fire...

Where I Hang

About Me...

By day, I'm an uptight and proper academic - you know, a publish or perish type who resides in tall towers with the likes of Rapunzul. In the evening, I morph into a lovable mom and wife, play with my children, hang with the hubby.
But when darkness falls and the house stills, I write.